


Dreamescaping

by Wilde_Shade



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Drug Use, M/M, Prostitution, Sibling Incest, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-23 00:57:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4857119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wilde_Shade/pseuds/Wilde_Shade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ford explores the minds of his family via their dreamscapes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> After years of casually orbiting fandom from a comfortable distance, Gravity Falls had pulled me back in. It's gotten out of hand, so I'm here to dump the trash from my Stancest trash heap. Uploading this and several other fics all at once, (hopefully, the formatting survives transit) so this A/N will likely be copied and pasted a few times.
> 
> I'm not sure if I'll keep adding these fics to my AO3, but they will be added to my tumblr side blog o' sin. Feel free to follow: http://sheepishandshamefaced.tumblr.com/

Ford was not a good man. You could call him curious. You could call him prudent. You could call him a scientist. “Good” was vague. “Good” was abstract. “Good” was a subject for philosophers, which Ford was not.

Even so, Ford would not call himself, objectively, good.

His life demanded efficiency, and efficiency demanded a certain level of comfort within moral gray areas… Which was how Ford rationalized invading his family’s minds while they slept.

It was Bill who had taught him how to astrally project, how to move from one dreamscape to another. He’d shown Ford the sigils, taught him the words. “Like our big project, but on a smaller scale,” he’d explained, opening a portal to Fiddleford’s mind with a snap of his fingers.

Bill had shown Ford so much in those days. It was because of Bill that he patrolled the minds of his family now. Perhaps it was pointless, but Ford felt he needed to try. Sleeping was such a waste of time, anyway. Best to use it productively.

To date, he had found no sign of Bill - though, he had discovered many things.

Dipper’s dreamscape was some sort of puzzle box - a Rubik’s cube with more sides and extra pieces and angles than a Rubik’s cube ought to have. It was maddening to navigate. There was a lot of Bill in there, but it was all just anxieties - none of it real.

Mabel’s dreamscape was an absolutely chaotic Wonderland of nonsense. If Bill was there, Ford was uncertain he would ever be able to find him. Staying there too long hurt his eyes.

Stanley’s mind he avoided. He didn’t do it purposefully. At least, he didn’t think he did. He tended to check on the children first and leave his brother for last. Each time, he woke up before he got that far.

Maybe he did do it on purpose.

Either way, there was no putting it off forever. Stanley’s mind was his first stop tonight.

Already, Ford regretted coming here. It was dark and gloomy and centered entirely around the horrible tourist trap Stan had made of Ford’s house. He made his way inside, pausing only briefly at the wreckage of a familiar swing set.

The interior of the dream shack was easier to navigate than Dipper’s mindscape and, marginally, more organized than Mabel’s - not that he was looking for anything in particular other than Bill. Even so…

Ford opened a door and looked in on a memory of a boxing match. A young Stan and Ford stood in their middle school locker room, still in boxing gear. Ford was fussing over his brother, trying to keep him from leaning his head back.

“But it’s dripping…” Stan complained, still trying to look up at the ceiling.

Ford caught his head in his hands, leveling it and pressing a wad of toilet paper to his bloody nose. “There. Stay still.”

Stan complied. They lapsed into a comfortable silence, broken very gradually as Stan broke into a slow grin and subsequent laughter. The white of his teeth was stained pink from a busted lip. “That was awesome.”

“You got disqualified!” But Ford was smiling, too.

“Worth it.”

The real, adult Ford shut the door. Ford remembered the day he had just seen. It had been a good day - even if Dad had been pretty ticked off that he had to stay after and talk with the couch about Stan’s behavior. It wasn’t the rule breaking that bothered Dad, it was the repercussions of getting caught.

A flash of yellow in Ford’s peripheral vision caught his eye. He turned, looking down a hallway but seeing nothing. He went in that direction anyway, taking the corner at a jog. Still nothing.

Ford slowed his pace. He strained his ears, but all he could hear was a chorus of his brother’s voice, echoing hundreds of times down the hallway. As far as Ford could tell, he was the only invader of dreams around.

God, this place was annoying.

He opened another door.

It was night time. Stan was sitting in the Stan o’ War, watching the waves roll in and out. Ford was there too, but asleep. He was snoring softly, legs dangling over the side of the boat, head in his brother’s lap. Stan’s fingers moved through his hair, but he remained otherwise motionless.

The Ford at the door remembered this, too. Obviously, he didn’t remember this part, specifically. He remembered waking up in the Stan o’ War and heading home with his brother early the next morning. He’d made a C on his report card. It was a mistake, but Ford had been inconsolable at the time. Dad always demanded his report card. The thought of going home to him with it had made Ford vomit up his school lunch.

Ford couldn’t resist. He stepped through the door and out onto the beach. He could smell the salt air, feel the wind. It all seemed wonderfully real.

“What are you doing snooping around in here?” asked Stan, looking back at Ford with a frown.

“I’m not snooping,” Ford snapped. “I’m… patrolling.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I don’t have to explain myself to someone who’s not real,” Ford complained. But that wasn’t entirely true. This version of Stan and himself only existed here because they had existed and did exist - at one point in time, on Glass Shard Beach, many, many years ago.

The Ford in the boat groaned in his sleep. Stan turned forward, brushed Ford’s hair back from his face again. “Lots of people would be happy with a C.”

The Ford in the sand snorted. “You, maybe.” But Ford’s amused smile fell. He realized that’s what Stan meant. “It was different. Mom and Dad didn’t expect that from you.”

“Yeah,” Stan agreed, eyes on the waves again. Ford watched them too for a few moments then headed back to the door, shutting it behind him.

Ford continued down the hallway. He came to an intersection of sorts. There was no signage and still no indication Bill had ever been here. Ford took a left.

A narrow door set diagonally in the wall caught his eye. He opened it. Inside was a disgusting public restroom - the sort reserved for gas stations and seedy bars. Ford supposed it was the latter by the driving thud of music being played much too loud somewhere very nearby. Stan was there - in his twenties, by the looks of it - in a red polyester shirt and blue jeans.

A skinny guy near him discreetly handed over a wad of cash. Stan rolled his eyes, straightened the bills out on his thigh, then reached into his pocket and tossed the guy a cellophane twist of something or another. It took Ford a couple of seconds to mentally sort out what he’d just watched.

“Oh… Really, Stanley?!” He slammed the door before he could see anything else he might regret seeing. He’d known his brother was a crook, but drug dealer was a new low.

Ford walked a ways before he picked a new door to open.

This one was better. It was still frustrating, but it was at least predictable. Ford watched a gray haired version of his brother curse at the console for the portal, as if he might somehow intimidate it into functioning.

Ford closed that door and picked another next to it.

Stan was cussing again, this time at their Dad. He was, maybe, eleven or twelve. His vocabulary of inappropriate words was more limited, but showing Dad lip was never a smart move. Ford cringed before it even happened. The back of Dad’s open hand hit Stan in the side of the face. Stan wasn’t braced for it and stumbled against the wall.

“What was that?” asked Dad, fishing for a different response from Stan, a respectful one.

Dad had been a stern man. Ford would never have called him an abusive man. He was simply a product of his time. He demanded respect. Watching now, it seemed worse than he remembered. Ford spotted himself a few feet away, looking small and uncertain.

Stan was slouched against the wall, one hand to his head.

“Well?” Dad prompted.

Stan raised his eyes to his father, expression shifting from dazed back to angry.

The Ford in the memory rushed between his father and brother. “We’re sorry,” he said, reaching behind himself, groping for Stan’s arm, finding it, digging his fingers into it. “We’re both sorry. We’ll work it off in the shop for a week.”

“Two weeks,” said Dad - his voice level, firm.

“Two weeks,” Ford agreed, digging his fingers into Stan’s arm harder than ever. He didn’t let go until Dad had gone. When they were alone, he turned to his brother. Stan slumped to the floor. “Put your head back, you’ll get blood on something.”

Stan put his head back, while Ford searched his pockets for a handkerchief. Stan choked - either on the blood from his nose or a sob. He was trying not to cry and failing.

Unable to find anything suitable in his pockets, Ford pushed his sleeve up over his hand and used that. “Why do you have to make him mad like that? We could have gotten off with one week if you hadn’t-”

“Sorry,” Stan all but spat the words at his brother. He meant them. He was just still worked up and angry.

“It’s okay,” Ford said, with a sigh. He pulled his sleeve from Stan’s nose for a moment. “Geez, he got you good, huh?”

The Ford standing outside of the memory, in the doorway remembered using club soda to get the blood out of that sleeve. He remembered doing it when he was alone so no one could see, like he was embarrassed for his dad, embarrassed that he’d accidentally drawn blood. Their father wasn’t like those dads they heard about at school, the ones that got the cops called on them. All dads gave their sons a smack when they misbehaved. It was normal. Stan just got the brunt of it.

Ford shut the door. That was enough for tonight.


	2. Chapter 2

Ford came upstairs to the smell of pancakes and the sound of shouting.

“Now kid!”

“I’m not-”

“Now!”

“It can wait un-”

“Now!”

“But-”

“Go!”

Dipper skulked from the room. Stan glared after him before returning to the stove. Mabel sat at the table - a neutral party hanging a spoon from her nose.

“Morning, Grunkle Ford,” Mabel said kicking her feet and shooting him a grin that made the spoon fall.

Stan glanced up from the stove top, spatula in hand. He gave a grunt of acknowledgment and went back to scrambling eggs.

“Good morning,” Ford said. “What was all that about?”

The question was directed toward Stan, but Mabel was the one who answered it. “Dipper made it rain frogs.”

Ford raised his eyebrows. “Fascinating. How did he manage that?”

“He can tell you all about it after he moves ‘em off the lawn,” said Stan.

“Ancient curse,” said Mabel.

Ford looked out the window. Sure enough, the front lawn was covered in a thin layer of amphibians. Dipper had a Hefty bag and a broom and looked uncertain as to how he could best utilize either. “Seems like this sort of thing that could wait until after breakfast,” said Ford, earning himself a glare from his brother.

“After breakfast, he has to restock t-shirts,” said Stan, taking plates from a cabinet.

“I thought these kids were here for Summer vacation?” Ford got a raised eyebrow from his brother this time. Normally, he left the kids to Stan. He supposed last night had made him unusually contemplative on the matter of child rearing.

“Dipper doesn’t mind,” said Mabel. She folded her hands on the table, smiling to herself. “He took the job off Wendy’s hands. And, I know what you’re thinking, he says he’s moved on, but… I shouldn’t gossip. It’s probably a secret… But…” She shot Ford a meaningful look. “Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge.”

“Mabel, sweetheart, everyone knows.” Stan dropped the pan onto the table and tapped Mabel on the top of her head with a couple of plates. “It’s a secret to no one. Now, go take your brother breakfast.”

Mabel did as she was told, fixing herself and her brother breakfasts of bacon, eggs, and two glasses of that horrifying substance she called, ‘Mabel Juice.”

Stan sat down, dropping a newspaper on the table and keeping his eyes on it as he addressed Ford. “She’s warmed up to you.”

“I had no idea she was ever cold to me.”

Stan gave another grunt in response, eyes still on his paper.

“I had a dream about dad last night.”

Stan raised his eyes at that. Ford saw a curious look in them, like maybe he remembered having a “dream” about their father as well. If he did, he didn’t actually mention it aloud. “Yeah?” he said instead.

“Yeah,” echoed Ford. “He was pretty rough on us, huh?”

Stan shrugged and looked back at his paper.

“I remember this one time he-”

“Kicked me out?” Stan interrupted, raising his eyebrows but not looking up.

“Before that,” Ford continued, pointedly. He didn’t care to discuss that particular night with his brother. It would only lead to an argument, and he didn’t want to argue. “When we were kids… When he’d punish us.”

Again, Stan shrugged. “Most of the time, we deserved it. It’s not like there’s plenty we didn’t get caught for.”

Ford studied his brother for a moment, trying to decide if he was insinuating what he thought he was insinuating. A shriek from outside distracted him. Ford looked out the window to find that the frogs were ascending back into the sky. “Hmm.” Ford stood. “Dipper!” he shouted out the window. “Dipper, catch a few of those for me!”

Ford hurried away from his brother and outside to where Dipper was attempting to gently bat frogs out of the air with his broom.

Ford spent the remainder of the day dissecting frogs and working on containing the rift. Dipper told him when lunch was ready and, when he didn’t show up for that, brought him dinner a few hours later. There were no clocks in Ford’s lab. When he got tired, he went upstairs to sleep on the sofa in what had since become Soos’ break room.

It was dark out. The house was silent except for sounds from the television in the den. Stan was slumped in the armchair, murmuring something unintelligible in his sleep. Ford considered waking him but decided against it. A small voice in his head was suggesting something else entirely.

 

There wasn’t much excusing this. Fortunately, Ford excelled in rationalizing things.

Thirty years was a long time to be gone. What better refresher course on his home dimension than this? This way, he killed two birds with one stone. Observe to make sure nothing was amiss and, in doing so, observe this dimension as filtered through his twin brother’s perception. Satisfied, Ford pressed onward into his brother’s dreamscape.

The first door he opened revealed a rather annoying scene - Stan rearranging Ford’s discoveries. He was putting some in boxes and dismantling others, rearranging them into attractions more palatable to the masses.

Ford closed that door in disgust and opened another.

Behind this door was Stan in, perhaps, his thirties, engaged in coitus with what looked to be a middle aged possible-housewife, definite-tourist. Her fanny pack bobbed in time to being fucked against… Well, they really shouldn’t be rough housing around such a delicate piece of machinery. It went off with an ear piercing shriek, blinking white light and spitting sparks. It was a prototype for a device built for the US military, designed to stun.

Clearly, this prototype had been a misstep. Stan and his lady friend were anything but stunned. They tripped over each other as they ran from the Shack half naked and screaming.

Ford rolled his eyes and closed the door. This was pointless. He shouldn’t be in here like Stan should have had the decency not to reshape Ford’s home to his whims. He’d shoved him through a portal, assumed his identity, destroyed his hard work - and not for the first time…

Spurred on by anger, Ford took a nearby flight of stairs down. The most interesting parts of the Shack were in the basement. Perhaps the same held true for his brother’s mind.

The next door opened into a memory Ford and Stan both shared. Ford tried to remain an impassive observer as he watched himself make out with his brother. The him in the memory was young and inexperienced. He was kissing Stan’s neck and Stan was grinning.

“You bite too much,” assessed Stan.

“I thought that was…” Ford trailed off. He frowned. “Girls don’t like that?”

“Not in high school. Leaves marks.” Stan took Ford by the shoulders and pushed him back at arm’s length. He kissed his brother’s neck then, softly. The older Ford, the one at the door, swore he could feel the ghost of Stan’s lips on his own throat. “Like that,” said Stan.

Stan was the authority on women when they were kids - still was compared to Ford. As a teen, Stan had the charisma necessary to coax girls into empty classrooms and parked cars. He tried to impart his knowledge to his brother with little success. Ford never did have any luck with women - which probably spoke volumes about Stan’s teaching skills.

Stan was a charmer. Even so, it was Ford that initiated the relationship between them. He needed no door in Stan’s mind to remember the argument he had made. He’d reasoned it out scientifically, developmentally. He’d made a graph. Stan had been startled at first, had expressed the disgust society expected from him at such a proposal.

He had come around, though. Ford closed the door.

Speak of the devil, there were the two of them fucking one door over. Stan was bracing himself against the side of the Stan o’ War. Ford was behind him, hands gripping his brother’s hips. It was cool and dark and the light from the stars was canceled out by the light from the boardwalk. Ford ignored the stirring of arousal it gave him.

No wet dreams. Not here. He closed the door.

The next door over was more sex. In their bedroom, quiet and under the sheets. Ford was sensing a theme in this hallway.

The next door over they were in the back seat of the El Diablo. Ford was on his back, and- Jesus. Did they really do it that often as teens? Ford slammed the door and headed down another flight of stairs.

Ford opened the door on an alleyway. The scene before him was still sexual. Stan didn’t look much older than he had been when dad kicked him out. He could have been eighteen or nineteen or twenty. Ford could tell he was older because of where he was. This wasn’t anywhere especially near Glass Shard Beach. This was an alleyway with sounds and smells Ford didn’t place as home. Stan was on his knees and the dick in his mouth, most certainly, didn’t belong to Ford.

Ford was… surprised.

It felt silly to realize, but he had not imagined there were men besides himself. Women, sure. But men? It wasn’t a shock. It had simply never occurred to him. Somehow, Ford had imagined himself something special to Stan - an exception.

Ford certainly wasn’t sure how he felt seeing his brother suck off a balding man, at least, twice his age.

The man made a disgusting, grunting sort of noise as he came into Stan’s mouth. Stan waited until he was done then turned and spit.

The man cast a furtive look around as he zipped himself back up. “Thanks,” he muttered as Stan stood.

Something changed hands then. More drugs? No. Money.

Ford took a step away from the door, forgetting to close it. He was missing context. That was simply a one time sort of memory Ford very much wished he had never seen. It was an isolated event. When he opened the next door, he would see something entirely different.

But the next door showed Stan on his knees again, in the same alley. This time the man held Stan by the hair when he came, holding him there until he was forced to either choke or swallow. Stan swallowed. He stood afterward, expression angry, posture aggressive. For a moment, it looked like he was about to say something. A wad of cash pulled from the john’s wallet put a stop to that. They shoved it at him. A couple of bills fluttered to the ground. It wasn’t much, but Stan swore and went after it.

Ford couldn’t stop himself. He barged into the memory. The john was leaving. Stan was on his knees again, fishing ones from where they had blown under the nearby dumpster. He looked up when he heard Ford. His eyes narrowed. “Great,” he said with a groan. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“What are you doing, Stanley?” Ford demanded.

“What does it look like?” Stan got one of the bills. He reached for the other. “I’m making money.”

“There are other ways to earn money.”

“And I do those, too,” Stan assured him. “I do it all. I’m a regular jack of all trades.”

“But…” Ford stared at him, at a loss. “Why?”

Stan stopped reaching for the money. He looked up at Ford, mouth agape, brows drawn together as if he had been asked a truly stupid question. “To survive. Gotta make money to earn money, you know? If I earn enough, I can go back home.”

“You won’t,” Ford said, his voice sounding far off to his own ears.

“Yeah, well, I don’t know that.”

Stan was right, of course, this was a memory. There was no changing it now. It was pointless to try and reason through something that had already happened, but… Ford couldn’t help himself. “How long did you do this?”

Stan gave a rather indifferent shrug. “Until this one guy I blew got me dealing for him. Thought my mouth had more uses than just the one. He was right.”

Behind Ford, another door opened to the scene Stan was describing. A sleaze bag in a nice suit sat across from Stan, using a credit card to make lines on the glass top coffee table between them.

“I still did it some after,” Stan admitted, standing now that he’d retrieved the last bill. He stuffed it into his front pocket. “I tried not to spend winters anywhere too cold. Even in the car, cold nights sucked.”

Another door in the hallway opened. A version of Stan with a mullet was in bed, in a cramped bedroom, hoisting himself up and down on some stranger’s erection. Outside the window, snow was falling.

“And in jail some… obviously. I mean, if you’ve already got a skill…”

Another door opened and Stan was on a bottom bunk in the dark, a course-looking cotton sheet gathered around his shoulders as he sucked off his cell mate. It was like a dark parody of their nights spent in their own bedroom when they were teens.

“It wasn’t the worst thing I ever did for money,” Stan amended. “It was mostly just hand jobs and head. Pretty hard to make a guy like me do something he doesn’t want to do.”

But a door opened on a scene of some guy in a dirty bathroom pulling a gun on Stan. Stan looked young and scared. He was wearing the same shirt he’d been wearing the day he got kicked out. It was a little dirtier now, had seen a lot of wear and was torn around the collar. “We agreed I’d just suck your dick, right? Come on man,” he said, looking over the barrel of the gun, trying his best to smile and inject levity into an impossibly bad situation. “I don’t do… this.”

He did that night, though, obviously. And he looked so resigned about the whole thing once he was against the wall. Ford couldn’t stand it. He ran from the memory he was in, across the hall, and into that one. He disarmed the assailant, turned the gun on him, fired. Stan sank down onto the dirty tile and Ford went with him. He hugged his brother for the first time in decades and felt Stan’s arms come around him in return, head bowed on his shoulder, fingers digging into his back.

All the times Stan had tried to protect him when they were kids, it felt right that he protect his brother now.

But, of course, he hadn’t.

“It’s okay,” murmured Ford.

But, of course, it wasn’t.

This was an island of time, with Ford’s absence stretching forward and back. If he’d stood up to Dad. If he’d sought his brother out in the intervening years. If he had just let his anger go… There were things he should have done and even more Stan shouldn’t have had to.

“You shouldn’t be here, Sixer,” said the Stan in his arms.

Hearing it out loud didn’t make it any easier for Ford to let go.

Ford stood. He left the room. He tried not to look back as the memory replayed itself, without Ford this time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter!
> 
> Also, quick art rec: [tentacledog posted a scene from the end of chapter two, and it is fantastic.](http://tentacledog.tumblr.com/post/129731273610/ford-busts-in-on-an-old-memory-while-visiting) They are also a writer of fantastic stancest fics that you can find in my bookmarks. 11/10 fandom treasure.

 

When Ford walked into the kitchen, there was nothing on the stove - no bacon, no eggs, no pancakes. Dipper was at the counter, fixing himself a bowl of cereal. His eyes lit up when he saw his uncle. “Morning, Great Uncle Ford.”

“Good morning, Dipper. No one made breakfast?” he asked. It wasn’t terribly unusual. The twins were most certainly old enough to fend for themselves… even if Dipper was so drowsy and distracted by Ford that the milk he was pouring had begun to overflow. Ford drew his attention to it with a pointed cough and a nod.

“Not today. There’s cereal, though- Oh, man!” Dipper stopped pouring and scrambled for the paper towels.

“Has everyone else eaten?”

“I don’t think so.” Dipper frowned. “Speaking of - I’m… uh, not sure there’s milk enough for everyone anymore.”

“I’ll cook breakfast,” said Ford. It wasn’t an offer so much as it was a statement.

“Cool. Can I… Can I help?”

“You can clean up the mess you just made.”

Dipper seemed to recall he was holding paper towels for a reason. “Right.”

Ford made omelets. He wasn’t much for cooking, but that seemed easy enough. Dipper offered to get the others but Ford was already on his way. His heart felt heavy in his chest, and his feet rebelled against him, reluctant to make forward progress. Before he made it to the living room, he had already run over several ways to announce the obvious. “I made breakfast,” was what he went with. It had a better ring to it than, ‘I violated your mind and saw things I wish I hadn’t. Should we talk about them?’

Stan and Mabel were still in the clothes they’d slept in. Stan had the television on without actually watching it. His gaze was soft and his mind seemed elsewhere. It took him a moment to look up after Ford spoke. Mabel looked up immediately. She was seated on the arm of the chair Stan was in. She was working on a sweater.

“I didn’t know you could cook, Grunkle Ford.” Mabel looked back at Stan who waved her on. “Don’t you want to come eat breakfast with us?”

“If his cooking is anything like it was when we were kids, I’m not missing much.” Stan waved her on again and she went.

Mabel sat her knitting down and headed for the kitchen. She didn’t look happy about it, though. Mabel sensed something was wrong like Ford _knew_ something was wrong.

Ford lingered in the den after Mabel had gone. Stan was looking at the television again - or, rather, looking in its direction while explicitly _not_ looking at it. “Something on your mind?” asked Ford, because he felt he needed to say something.

Stan glanced up, perhaps detecting a note of concern. He looked puzzled by it, which hurt Ford more than he cared to admit. “Didn’t sleep well,” said Stan, words clipped, tone curt. He looked back at the television.

Ford might have said something else, but what was the point? He went back to the kitchen, where Mabel was complaining about a sliver of eggshell lodged in the roof of her mouth.

 

* * *

 

 

Clearly, poking around in a person’s mind drew the memories you interacted with to the surface and Ford had been delving into some rather unsavory memories for two consecutive nights now.

Either he could have a word with Stan about that… or he could go back into his brother’s memories and find happier ones.

It was no choice at all, really.

Ford spent the day as he normally did. So did the rest of the family, as far as he was aware.

Dipper went out exploring briefly - Ford knew this, because the boy poked his head down twice to ask questions about ciphers found here and secret doors there.

Mabel finished her new sweater - Ford knew this, because she came down to show it to him. “It’s a pine tree. I made it for Dipper… Because, I love him… Because he’s my brother.”

“Yes, it’s very nice.”

“Okay… I’m going now… To give this to my twin brother… Because I love him.”

“That’s enough.”

Ford wished it was as simple as knitting a sweater… Not that he could… Or would, necessarily. It was a bad analogy.

Stan, he gathered, perked up as the day progressed. He could hear him from all the way down in the basement on occasion, spinning bothersome falsehoods about this and that. Business as usual, it seemed.

Still, Ford had made up his mind.

When it was late and the whole house was still, he reopened his portal into Stan’s mind, and… nothing. Ford tried again - even though these things didn’t take more than one try. It either worked or it didn’t. And, this time, it didn’t.

Stan must be awake. Ford refused to entertain any other possibility. With a reluctant sigh, he got up from his sofa and went down the hall, to the room Stan had made his. He hesitated outside the door. What was he even doing here? He listened but heard nothing. Ford put his hand on the doorknob and hesitated again.

What excuse did he have to just barge in? …Other than he couldn’t stand it. He needed to do something- and if Stan wasn’t asleep…

Ford eased the door open. “Are you awake?” he whispered.

Stan had his back to the door. He didn’t respond, didn’t move.

“I… couldn’t sleep.” It wasn’t an entire lie. He hadn’t tried to sleep yet, but he did feel restless. “I thought, maybe, we could… talk.”

Stan’s side rose a little higher and fell a little lower in a sigh.

So, Ford was being ignored. Ford gave a sigh of his own. “I know you’re awake.” Emboldened by the slight, he didn’t bother with a whisper any longer. He walked to the bed and around it, to the side Stan was facing.

Stan turned his head, but not fast enough.

“Stanley…” Ford lowered his voice again and went down on one knee beside the bed. This was… awkward. He could have counted the times he had seen his brother cry on one hand and not even need all six fingers. He wasn’t sobbing or anything quite that dramatic, but his cheeks were still streaked and his eyes were still red and it was still… incredibly awkward. Ford would have pretended he hadn’t seen it had he not been so certain he was the cause of it.

“Tryin’ to sleep here,” Stan grumbled into his pillow, content to pretend nothing was wrong - even if Ford wouldn’t. “Do you mind?”

It felt wrong. It felt bad. It felt like a cold weight in Ford’s chest, and he wished he hadn’t come in here at all - but he had. And now he couldn’t just leave.

Ford reached out. He was unprepared for how unsteady his hand would be, and it gave him pause. He kept going, though. Gently, slowly, he pushed his fingers through Stan’s hair. It was gray now, but it felt the same. It made him think of nights spent together in the distant past, of the comfortable, silent closeness after sex.

Stan turned his head away from the pillow - marginally at first, then a little more when Ford pushed his other hand beneath his cheek. He brushed newly shed tears away with his thumb, still smoothing back his brother’s hair. Stan’s eyes were squeezed shut. He was very still, very stiff, like he didn’t know how to deal with this attention. Ford couldn’t be certain if Stan was afraid that he would continue or stop.

“Do you…” Ford started. He had to swallow before he could finish the question. His mouth had gone dry. “Do you want to talk about it?”

The moment popped like a soap bubble. Stan shook his head, shaking off his brother’s hands in the process. He sat up, dragging an arm across his face as if to get rid of any remaining signs he had been crying. “Nothing to talk about.”

Ford looked up at his brother from the floor. He knew better. “There is…”

Stan glanced at him then looked away. “It’s… nothing,” he said, sounding defensive but honest - Like he appreciated Ford’s concern but wasn’t sure what to do with it. “It’s… A bunch of shit that’s in the past.”

“Like what?”

“Like nothing. None of it involves you.” Stan sat up a little straighter. “What’s this about, anyway? Look, if you want the bed, just say so. It’s your house. If you- Stanford?”

Stanford’s right hand was over his mouth. He was still on one knee, and his thoughts were so far gone elsewhere that, until Stan gave him a funny look, he didn’t realize _he’d_ started crying at some point. God. What a mess. Face growing hot, he stood to leave the room. “Sleeping arrangements aren’t an issue. Go back to sleep. It’s my house, but I shouldn’t have barged in.” He started toward the door, but Stan grabbed him by the wrist.

Ford froze and felt the grip on his wrist ease up - afraid to hurt him but reluctant to let him go without an explanation. “What’s wrong? You said you couldn’t sleep?” asked Stan, recalling the excuse Ford had used when first entering the room. “What did you… What did you want to talk about?”

Ford shook his head, quickly wiping at his eyes beneath his glasses. What a train wreck this was. “I’d rather not say,” said Ford because, according to Stan, it didn’t involve him. And he wasn’t wrong. He was, _technically_ , correct in the worst possible way.

“Sit down,” said Stan.

Ford did. He didn’t make the conscious decision to so much as his legs just decided they were willing to give out at the slightest excuse.

Stan’s hands moved to the sides of his brother’s face, much as Ford’s had. He didn’t touch him, though. He just held that pose, uncertain. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Where could Ford start? What could he possibly say? “Us,” he said at last, because whichever way you split it, that was what was at the heart of the problem.

Stan’s hands settled on Ford’s face, framing it, tracing the shape of his cheekbones. “Look, I…” he trailed off with a pained sigh. “I’m sorry.”

That was just about the worst thing Stan could have said to Ford. Frustrated, he brought his fist down hard on Stan’s chest before collapsing against it.

Stan was very still for a moment, no doubt getting mixed messages from all this. In the end, he folded himself around his brother - chin on the top of his head, arms wrapped tight around his back.

Ford listened to his brother’s heartbeat. He stayed there for what felt like ages, just breathing in the scent of him. When he finally pulled back, it was to leave. Something stopped him, though. Something incessant and intangible and desperately hungry made him kiss Stan.

It wasn’t much at first. His lips brushed his brother’s and lingered there. If he stopped, he knew Stan would have let it slide like it was nothing at all. But Ford couldn’t. With a frustrated groan, he kissed him, hard.

Stan’s hands moved to Ford’s shoulders, squeezing. He wasn’t kissing him back. For a moment, Ford thought he was about to be pushed away. Then Stan’s mouth relaxed against his, his lips parted, pressing back against Ford.

Ford put his weight against his brother. He pushed until Stan was on his back and Ford was on top of him. He straddled his brother. He kissed the stubble-rough skin of his jaw. He kissed his neck.

Stan’s hands were still on Ford’s shoulders. He squeezed. His breath came out slow and shuddering.

Ford pulled back, painfully aware that his brother was on the brink of tears again… and that, again, it was his fault. This wasn’t what Stan wanted. This was what Ford wanted. Stan was just going along with it, because this was the closest they’d been in decades.

Ford scrambled off his brother, off of the bed.

Stan sat up, swinging his legs out over the side of the mattress. He reached for Ford again, but it was more halfhearted this time. He didn’t try again when Ford stepped out of reach.

Ford stared at his brother and he thought of his dreamscape. He thought of the halls and he thought of the rooms and he thought of what he had last seen inside of them. He looked at Stan now and knew he was thinking of the same things, that he had been since Ford had gone digging it all up. Stan was looking at him now and had no idea that he knew. He looked like he was on the verge of apologizing again, and Ford could have changed that with the truth.

But the truth died in Ford’s throat before he could find the words. Ford said nothing. Ford left.


	4. Chapter 4

“So, I’m not sure how to tell you or if I even should,” Ford amended, having explained the entire dilemma to his teenage brother.

Stan was in bed with a version of Ford that was a senior in high school, still months away from having his perpetual motion machine destroyed. Both Stan and teenage Ford watched him intently. “Aren’t you just making things worse doing this?” asked Stan.

Ford turned his face against Stan’s shoulder, miserable. “I don’t know what to do,” he admitted - which had to be obvious to even a fragment of Stan’s subconscious. He’d interrupted a memory of quiet, late night sex to crawl into an already cramped bed and expound his laundry list of problems. “There’s plenty to be done, but it’s not like I can stay in the basement forever.” Ford knew this for a fact. He’d tried.

“I would tell Stan what you told us,” said teenage Ford. “I couldn’t lie to him.”

“Yes you could,” Ford snapped. “You lie to him all the time.”

“No, I-”

“You’re not me. You’re a teenage Stanley’s perception of me,” Ford interrupted, irritably. “I lied. I know I lied.”

“About what?” asked Stan.

None of this was making Ford feel any better. “At this age? The future mostly.”

“The future?” repeated Stan. He pulled teenage Ford closer.

“Treasure hunting isn’t a viable future.” Ford sighed. He stared up at the ceiling. “The Stan o’ War is a hobby.”

“I thought-”

“I know what you thought,” Ford said, rushing through the words. He didn’t feel like talking about any of this. “I didn’t want you upset.”

“And I wasn’t going to be upset when I found out-”

“You were.”

“That makes sense,” said Stan, absorbing the information without storing it. As soon as Ford left the room, it would be lost and irrelevant to him. “I based my whole future around us.”

“Your future wasn’t my responsibility.”

“No, but it would have been nice if you’d told me before our senior year,” Stan complained to teenage Ford who spread his hands to indicate he wanted nothing to do with his older, actual self. “It’s like when Lana was just dating me until someone better came along. She just hated being single.”

“I’m not Lana Daniels.” Ford sat up, not feeling particularly welcome anymore.

“I’ll be stuck here with Dad,” Stan said, mostly to himself.

He wouldn’t, of course, but Ford didn’t tell him that.

“Dad hates me.”

“Dad doesn’t hate you,” said teenage Ford.

Ford hesitated before standing. He looked back at Stan, at the swollen lip that wasn’t from any boxing match. “Dad… never loved either of us like he should.” It felt strange to admit that aloud. Ford hadn’t been poking around in that section of Stan’s memories. He’d just been reassessing some memories of his own.

Stan was a lot like Dad in a lot of ways. They were both big, both strong, both aware of it. Dad was more calm and collected than Stan had ever been. They both had their passionate outbursts, but Stan had the capacity for love Dad lacked. Ford stayed out of Dad’s way, but Stan was too hard headed for that.

Ford sighed. He left the room and found another he remembered as a happy memory.

There was a fair. Stan and Ford were making out under the boardwalk. There were lights and laughter above, but it was too dark for the two of them to be seen in the sand and shadows. Still, the thrill of being caught had made it more exhilarating. Ford’s back was to a wooden beam. Stan’s hands were beneath his shirt. Their mouths were together.

The real Ford walked between them. “There are, perhaps, some mistakes I’ve made recently,” he said, and began explaining his predicament again.

There was certainly no one else he could talk to.

 

It was three days straight in the basement before Stan came downstairs himself. Ford had been in his mind, so he knew he was awake. They both were. Ford was still alarmed when he heard footsteps on the stairs. He supposed it was inevitable. They hadn’t spoken since the night when Ford had caught him crying and… well… had done what he did after.

“You awake?” called Stan.

Ford was in a sleeping bag in a far corner of the lab. He couldn’t see Stan from where he was and, if he held very still, Stan likely wouldn’t find him at all.

“Stanford?” Stan called again. His voice was closer this time but still far off.

Ford strained his ears. He heard Stan take several steps then stop. He heard the echoing sound of metal. He heard the same sound but amplified as Stan kicked something.

“What are you doing?” Ford demanded, jumping to his feet and rushing over.

Stan was standing over what remained of one of the portal’s consoles. He had on his slippers and robe and was looking down at the device with a frown. “You took it apart?” he asked.

Ford slowed to a stop. He took a moment to collect himself. “I took everything related to the portal apart, yes… Though, I’m trying to put that back together. It regulated the power down here… I forgot about that.”

“AC’s been busted for three days. Did it power that, too?”

“Maybe.”

Stan frowned at him. “Well, can you fix it?”

“Is that why you came down here?” Ford asked before he could help himself. He very much hoped this was why Stan had come down here.

“Sure,” Stan said, unhelpfully dismissing the question. “Now, can you fix it?”

“I’ll get to it tomorrow,” Ford promised, hoping that would satisfy Stan enough to leave him alone.

“You’ll fix it now.”

“Excuse me?” Ford raised his eyebrows at that. “This is my house and my basement and-”

“And I’m in charge of the kids, right? Kids like air,” snapped Stan. He lowered his voice before continuing, making an obvious effort not to pick a fight. “And they like you,” he added. “They’re worried about you. Say you haven’t come up for days.”

There it was. So, the kids were worried and Stan had come down here on their behalf. That was preferable to the conversation Ford thought Stan had come down here for. “I’m fine,” he assured him. “I have a sleeping bag. There’s an emergency shower. What else do I need?”

“Food?”

“Dipper drops that off.”

“Yeah, and when he talks about you to strangers, people aren’t sure if you’re family or a pet that lives in the basement. At least come up and have dinner with them, Poindexter.”

The nickname coaxed a smile from Ford. He looked away. He was happier holed up in the basement - especially after recent events - but coming up occasionally felt like a small concession to make. “Yes, yes. All right. Now, if you don’t mind- What are you doing?!”

Stan had crouched down and pulled the side off the console. He looked at the inner workings of it and frowned. “I’m fixing this piece of junk.” He reached around and disconnected the fat bundle of wires in back.

“I’ll fix it!” Ford put his hands on Stan’s shoulders, trying to pull him away. “You don’t know what you’re- Don’t take that out!”

“Relax.” Stan dropped the gear he’d just yanked out onto the floor. “You think this stuff didn’t need fixin’ while you were in the portal? Hand me a wrench.”

That made sense, but Ford was still skeptical. He brought over a toolbox from the desk anyway. “Don’t break it.”

“It’s already broken.”

“Don’t break it more.”

“You dismantled it! Unless you wanna melt it down, it’s already the maximum amount of broken!”

“Move.”

“No.”

“I’ll do it.”

“No.”

In the end, Ford sat down to the right and behind Stan, sulkily and occasionally shining a penlight into the innards of his own device to assess it’s progress. “Why are you doing that?” he would ask, every few minutes.

And Stan would tell him.

Ford was doubtful… But he couldn’t say with full certainty that Stan was wrong… Which was worse, somehow.

Twenty minutes later, Stan was replacing the panel. He fed the wires back in. He turned it on.

Nothing.

Ford was unsurprised but sympathetic. He didn’t have it in him for any ‘I told you so’s. “You tried. Look, I’ll try to get it running first thing in the- Don’t kick it!”

Stan kicked the console a second time. It hummed to life. The generators shut down and the main power came back up, making the lab, suddenly, brighter.

“Told you so,” said Stan.

Ford didn’t mention that he had worked on it for several hours and gotten frustrated. “I could have fixed it,” he said, which was the truth. “I’ve just been otherwise occupied. I haven’t seen most of the machinery in here in ages. It makes sense that you would be familiar with it. You’ve been around it for the last-”

“Thirty years.” Stan interrupted. He’d taken a grease stained rag from the tool box. He twisted it in his hands as he cleaned them, agitated. “Yeah, I know.”

“I didn’t-” Ford cringed. “Thank you, Stanley. You did that… Unconventionally- But, I’m impressed. I really am.”

Stan turned his head away, but Ford could see he did so to hide a smile.

It occurred to Ford then that he couldn’t recall the last time he’d paid Stan a compliment of that nature. “Feels like the AC has kicked back on… Are you going back to bed?”

Stan was silent too long for comfort. “Stanford,” he said finally, and there was an uncomfortable weight to it. Stan faced him. His smile was replaced with a rather awkward, reluctant expression. “We should probably talk about…” he trailed off. Ford didn’t blame him. There weren’t many words to encapsulate that sort of disaster.

“We don’t have to,” said Ford. “I was tired. I wasn’t thinking. It shouldn’t have happened.”

“That’s not…” Stan fidgeted where he stood a bit. He looked away. “I miss what we used to have. I really do… I hate that I… killed the moment like I did.”

“Stanley.” It killed Ford to see Stan so confused by his own emotions. Without thinking, Ford put his hand on Stan’s shoulder - like he could convey that he understood without actually having to tell Stan why it was he understood. “It’s been forty years. It would be insane to just… pick up where we left off.”

“Can we, though?”

The question caught Ford by surprise. His hand tensed on Stan’s shoulder. “Is that… It that what you want.”

Stan groaned. “Hell, Sixer, I don’t know… I missed you. I love you.”

Ford looked at his hand on Stan’s arm, rubbing small, nervous circles against his terrycloth robe. “I love you, too,” he said in the same effortless way Stan had - because he was family, like he owed him love.

Stan leaned forward, and Ford closed the distance. They kissed, softly, as if testing it - then harder, more certain that, yes, this is what they both wanted. Ford took Stan by the hand and led him to his sleeping bag.

Stan wasn’t thrilled by Ford’s sleeping arrangements. “We’re getting you a bed and, God, I don’t know- Some pajamas or something? A change of clothes. Do you have a change of clothes anywhere down here?”

Ford pushed Stan’s robe off of his shoulders and kissed the skin it exposed. That shut him up.

The turtleneck Ford wore proved to be a bit of a problem. Stan got it rather thoroughly stuck when he tried to remove it - then stopped pulling to laugh about it. Ford had to do the rest. He heard Stan make a soft sound of approval before he’d even gotten it all the way off.

Time on the other side of the portal had left Ford changed in myriad ways. He was certainly more capable now, if nothing else. More softness than muscle, yes, but he could do more than hold his own in fights these days - He could also still lose them, as evidenced by some of the scars his adventures had earned him.

Ford watched Stan touch each faded claw mark and shiny, smooth burn - learning their shape and texture. Ford wasn’t embarrassed. They were what they were. “A lot of these I got before I even went into the portal,” Ford said, because he knew what Stan was thinking. Gravity Falls was a dangerous place, and danger did nothing to temper Ford’s curiosity.

Stan sighed, and Ford felt his breath hot against his stomach. “You have to take better care of yourself,” said Stan, but there was still a degree of guilt there.

Ford brushed his fingers through his brother’s hair and pushed his head back. He leaned down and kissed him, working one of his own hands beneath Stan’s undershirt.

“Pretty sure you aged better than I did,” grumbled Stan, letting his brother undress him.

Ford had never known Stan to be self conscious - but it was difficult not to compare yourself to your twin. It wasn’t as if Ford hadn’t caught himself doing it on more than one occasion. As kids, their strengths and differences had been more clearly defined. Ford was the brains, Stan was the brawn. But Stan was clever. Ford was agile. Their edges were both at once stronger and less well defined.

“I don’t know,” said Ford, growing nostalgic as his eyes roamed over his brother. Stan didn’t look so different to him - soft and hard and, admittedly, more hairy. Time hadn’t been kind to either of them, but Ford wasn’t sure their bodies had much to do with it.

“It’s been a long time,” said Stan, unable to keep his hands off Ford. “You look good. Really good.”

Hands unbuttoning his pants snapped Ford out of his gloomy mood. He was already painfully hard and he felt his face grow hot to have Stan discover that.

Stan grinned. “Glad to see I still turn you on, Sixer.”

God, could he ever. Ford launched himself at Stan before he could say anything else smart. Stan caught him in arms that felt so much like he remembered against his bare skin. He stayed there for a moment, kissing Stan, savoring the closeness. But, ultimately, he wanted Stan on his back.

It had been so long. It was amazing to be grinding their hips together like they were teens again, kissing and biting and, evidently, sucking - when Ford’s fingers somehow found their way into Stan’s mouth.

“I didn’t say it before, but the way you fixed that console was really hot,” Ford gasped, biting his lip as the knuckle of his index finger scraped against Stan’s teeth. He had a tendency to get a little talkative in the heat of the moment. It was probably one of the reasons why he had never really been able to hit it off with women. “And, God, you look good. You look really good. Most likely, it’s just because it’s been a long time, but-”

“Getting dangerously close to insults here, Sixer,” Stan said around Ford’s middle finger.

“Do you understand how long it’s been since I had sex?”

“It disgusts me that I missed your pillow talk.”

With his free hand, Ford groped for something serviceable as lube. All he had was hand lotion pilfered from the bathroom - because he never went to the store but did have… well… needs. “Turn over.”

Stan did as he was told, but it was that that gave Ford pause. For all his indifference towards his own scars, Stans’ gave him pause. “Stanley…” He reached for the brand, but his fingers only hovered over it, uncertain.

Stan glanced back and, when he did, he gave a sigh. “It’s in the past. We both did things we didn’t mean to.”

Ford pulled his hand away.

“Besides,” added Stan. “Now that you’re back, it doesn’t even bother me.”

Ford went back to the task at hand. He grabbed the lotion and took his time working Stan open. If his squirming was any indication, Stan would have much rather just gotten on with it. The frustration was part of the fun, though. Stan had never been one for foreplay even as a teenager.

“I’m putting it in now.”

“You don’t have to give me a play by play, Stanford. It’s a dick not a football - Jesus!” Stan tensed. He bit down on the sleeping bag.

“All right?”

Stan gave a nod that could only be termed, enthusiastic.

Ford pulled Stan’s hips up and his own cock out a bit. He found a somewhat unsteady rhythm that made them both gasp. His knees rebelled a bit at the shifting weight, but he managed.

The whole thing was a bit of a mess. It didn’t last very long. Ford came too soon and Stan had to finish himself off. The afterglow was more of a dim smolder. Ford felt his age as he lie there beside his brother, a little embarrassed, a little unsatisfied. Still, he smiled when Stan rolled onto his side and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“Buy lube.”

“You go to the store.” Ford didn’t have time for stores. Besides, he was fairly certain the cash he’d been given for such an outing was play money he’d been supplied with as a joke. It was too colorful, and the numbers were too large.

“Come to the store with me.”

“Yes, let’s go on a family outing to buy lube.”

Stan laughed at that. “I’ll buy lube, you just come out with us on an unrelated family outing. Can’t be healthy to spend all your time down here.”

Ford started to argue, but he was touched by the concern. He gave his brother a smile before he stood.

“Where are you going?” asked Stan.

“Thanks to a certain someone, I’m wide awake now. I’m going to get some work done. Helps me sleep.” Ford nodded toward another console he had taken apart - this one to scrap for parts for something else entirely. “Want to help?”

Stan sat on the floor. Ford sat in front of him, between his legs, reclined back against his chest. For the last hour or so they’d been like this. Now Ford held up a piece of delicate machinery, rotating it slowly in one hand. Drowsily, he watched his brother rewire it.

“This is a turn on,” Ford admitted, breaking the silence. “If I weren’t so sleepy, I’d do something about it.”

Stan snorted but Ford felt the beginnings of a chuckle rumble in his chest. Those big brutish hands of his were more nimble than they looked - Ford supposed they would have to be, given all the pockets he picked. “Your turn.” Stan finished what he was doing and took the machinery from Ford, taking it so that his brother could pick up where he had left off.

Ford slid away a panel to expose a circuit board inside. He pulled at the ends at some of the wires Stan had finished with. “Stanley…” he began, growing thoughtful. “I am sorry for what happened several nights ago. I really am.”

“Hmm?”

“In your bedroom…” Ford cleared his throat. “When I… And you weren’t, really… in the mood.” That was putting it lightly.

“Oh.”

Ford could already tell that Stan was embarrassed. That hadn’t been his intention.

“Forget about it. I don’t know what go into me,” he said, pulling the next wire across for Ford. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot since then.”

“Have you now?”

“Yeah… A lot.”

Something about the oddly troubled way Stan had said that gave Ford pause. “Are we talking every waking hour here or…”

“Dreams,” said Stan. “A bunch of weirdly vivid dreams. Can’t get you off my mind, so I figured why not just come down here and- What’s wrong?”

Ford had sat up. He stood now and took a few steps away. Dammit, this wasn’t right either. This was wrong. It was all wrong. “Stanley.” He turned to his brother. He took a deep breath. “We need to talk.”


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

Ford did his best to skip over the unsavory parts and use vague language. He wasn’t normally one to sugar coat things. It seemed to be a byproduct of knowing he was in the wrong.

When he had finished talking, he waited for Stan to respond. Stan didn’t, at first. He remained seated on the floor, propped back on  arms stretched out behind him. His expression was just this side of unreadable. He was almost certainly upset. It was just difficult to gauge how upset.

“What the hell, Ford?!”

Very upset. Stan was _very_ upset.

“Not invade,” Ford corrected, quickly. “I was searching for signs of Bill. I was trying to protect this family. I did the same with Dipper and Mabel.”

“You damn well better not have.”

“Okay!” Ford held up his hands. “Perhaps, I was more invasive with you.”

“ _Perhaps_?”

“It’s not… It sounds worse than it is.”

“Jesus.” Stan got to his feet. His back gave a crack but he ignored it, starting to pace instead. “Do you… Do you remember that time you had your little nerd journal?”

“The Journals I-”

Stan waved a hand, cutting him off. “Not the Journals. That stupid diary you hid under the loose floorboard.”

“I don’t-”

“I read it. It’s a good thing you stuck with science. The poetry you wrote for Jessica sucked.”

“Stanley!”

“Yeah, this is sort of like that. Except we were fourteen and the diary wasn’t your brain.”

Perhaps attempting to sugar coat matters had been a mistake. Ford lowered his gaze. There was no way around it. “I’m sorry,” he sighed. “I never meant to… I’m just… sorry.”

The apology seemed to pacify Stan a bit. At the very least, he stopped shouting. He didn’t stop pacing, though. He must have been thinking through what Ford had told him, finally putting the worst pieces together. “So, these dreams I’ve been having… That was you looking in on my memories.”

Ford took a deep breath. He nodded.

“So, recently, with the sex, and before with…” Stan trailed off.

Ford looked up. Stan had stopped pacing. He was standing very still. His own eyes were fixed on the floor now, his gaze distant, momentarily horrified. Ford didn’t know what to say. He started to apologize again - for different reasons this time. Ford wasn’t sure whether or not that would be condescending. So Ford said nothing. He shifted his weight and brought a hand over his mouth, frustrated by his own silence.

“I didn’t have a lot starting out, okay?” Stan said, finally, immediately taking the defensive. “Takes money to make money and all that. It was only a couple of times. It’s not like-” Stan stopped, undoubtedly realizing he couldn’t lie his way out of this one. Ford had been inside his mind. He had seen the truth. So, Stan just owned it. “All right, fine. I sucked cock in between money making schemes. What’s the big deal?”

Ford wasn’t sure where to start. He dropped his hand from over his mouth. “I didn’t know things were that bad.”

Stan’s expression twisted. He was no longer defensive, he was angry. “You didn’t _know_?” he repeated. “Dad kicked me out while I was still in high school. I had a car and a duffel bag, and I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this - because you were standing in the goddamn window, Stanford. So, yeah, I earned money where I could. You were off at your fancy college, I was homeless.”

“I didn’t-”

“I swear to God, if the next words out of your mouth are that you ‘didn’t know…”

“I didn’t…” Ford winced, desperate for different phrasing. “I didn’t want to think about it. I was so mad at you for so long, I didn’t want- What I mean is-” Ford was cut off again, this time by a touch rather than words. He looked up to find Stan’s hand on his shoulder.

“Forget about it… After what happened with the portal… I figure we’re more than even on that front.” Stan’s eyes darted away, guiltily.

Now that the flood gates of brutal honesty had been opened, Ford wasn’t entirely sure the portal wasn’t partly (If not almost entirely) his fault as well. He didn’t say that, though. He was too desperate for forgiveness. He brought a hand up and put it over the one on his opposite shoulder.

Stan pulled away almost immediately. “I don’t know what to think about this… invading my dreams stuff,” he said, making it clear that he was still angry with Ford. “And by that I mean I _literally_ don’t know how to feel. I wouldn’t even be down here right now if I hadn’t been dwelling on shit you made me dwell on. And don’t even get me started on the private stuff.”

“I can teach you how to enter my dreams… If that would… make us even.”

“No!” Stan snapped - which, despite his anger - was a bit of a relief. “If I wanted to know something, I would ask you! Same way that if you wanted to know something about me, you shoulda just asked.”

“But, would you have told me?”

“Probably not. And you want to know why? Because some things are private.” Stan shook his head in apparent disbelief. “You think you know everything, but you don’t understand people at all. You just… do whatever you want. Screw everyone else as long as you’re happy.”

Ford’s insides felt cold. His stomach turned. His heart raced. “I’m not happy.”

Stan rolled his eyes at that. “Well, that’s a pity. Do me a favor and wait until it passes. Don’t ruin any lives over it.”

“I don’t think…” Ford took a deep, somewhat shaky breath. “I don’t think I’ve been happy in a long time… More than forty years now… I can’t be certain, I just… Tonight made me realize how much I missed you, I think. I-” Ford swayed a bit on his feet. His own unsteadiness surprised him. “I think I need to sit down.”

Stan closed the distance between them. He put an arm around his brother, taking him a bit by surprise. The back of Stan’s hand went to his forehead, his cheeks. “You’re anxious,” he said. “And sleep deprived. Probably all that time you should be sleeping, when you’re off snooping around other people’s brains instead… Come on.” Arm still supporting Ford, Stan guided him toward the stairs.

Ford dragged his feet. “Where are we going?”

“You’re taking the bed tonight.”

“What? No, Stanley. That’s not necessary. Don’t-”

“You’re taking the bed,” Stan repeated, so firmly that Ford didn’t dare object. “Maybe it’s just your interference talking but, dammit, I still don’t want you not taking care of yourself.”

Ford started to object, but it felt like there was a good chance that would only make matters worse. “All right,” he agreed with a sigh.

Stanley led him no further than the bedroom. Once he had gotten Ford that far, he let him do the rest on his own.

“Where will you sleep?” asked Ford, willing to share a bed with Stan, but doubtful he would want to.

“Don’t worry about it. Get some sleep.”

“Stanley-”

“We can talk tomorrow,” Stan said quickly. Ford noted he looked a little on edge himself. He didn’t comment on it or argue with him. It seemed like the best course of action was to just cooperate for now.

“Good night, Stanley,” said Ford.

Stan said nothing, still not looking at Ford. He left the room.

Ford watched him disappear down the hallway. He closed the door and crossed the room to the bed, practically collapsing onto it when he got there. The bed was better than a sleeping bag, that much was certain. Heart still racing, insides still so icy cold they brought up goosebumps on his arms, Ford dropped his head to the pillow. He closed his eyes and breathed in Stan’s scent - cheap cologne and sweat and the earthy wooden scent of the gift shop. It made his heart race faster. Ford wasn’t sure how he was supposed to fall asleep like this.

He was asleep in moments anyway.

 

* * *

.

Ford woke up to the sound of children bickering in the kitchen over what, sounded to be over, literal spilt milk. The door to the bedroom was open. Ford checked the time. It was certainly much later than they normally ate breakfast. It seemed they had come into the room to see what was keeping Stan, found Ford, and decided to fend for themselves.

All the messy details of the previous night came rushing back to Ford. He groaned, and buried his face in Stan’s pillow. But this wasn’t a permanent fix, and he was curious where Stan was. If not anywhere the twins would think to look for him, Ford’s first guess would be the basement.

Ford sighed, stood, and got out of bed.

Dipper and Mabel had, evidently, made up already and were in front of the television, eyes glued to it as they shared a box of dry cereal. That was… probably fine. Ford continued on to his destination.

Sure enough, Ford heard Stan snoring before he had made it completely down the stairs. The lights were on, and Ford found Stan rather easily, sprawled out on his own sleeping bag.

Stan didn’t stir when Ford approached. Ford had a good guess why by the looks of the empty liquor bottle nearby. Great. Annoyed but not terribly surprised, Ford went to the emergency stores he kept handy for the, inevitable, apocalypse. “I screwed up,” he murmured to himself as he retrieved ibuprofen and a bottle of water. He supposed he wouldn’t wake Stan, but he felt he should at the very least leave him something before heading back upstairs. Something caught his eye as he made his way back to his brother. He dropped the water and the pills and hurried over to the memory eraser next to his sleeping bag.


	6. Chapter 6

 

_Dreams_

That’s what the memory erasing gun read.

_Dreams_

Ford’s all consuming guilt hardened into anger. He retrieved the bottled water he’d been holding and thew it at his brother.

He probably should have unscrewed the cap first. The impact wasn’t terribly dramatic. It hit his brother between the shoulders with a thud and rolled off under a desk. Stan gave a groan but didn’t stir otherwise.

Ford kicked him in the legs. That did the trick.

“What the-” Stan sat up, groggy, glasses askew. He adjusted his glasses and blinked up at Ford, blearily. “The hell, Ford?” he asked, squinting and cringing against the light.

“Really, Stanley?” Ford waved the memory eraser. “Dreams? Really? That’s just…” All things considered, it wasn’t the worst thing he could have erased. Ford had been afraid of finding something much worse when he picked the device up. “Dangerously abstract!” he concluded.

“What are you talking about?” asked Stan, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if to stave off a headache.

Oh, God. Ford leaned down and grabbed Stan by the front of his undershirt. “Did you use it more than once?!”

“Woah! What?” Stan woke up a bit. His eyes strayed to the memory eraser Ford was still holding. He sighed. “Calm down, Sixer. I only used it the one time.”

Ford started to release his shirt but thought better of it. He hauled him to his feet instead.

Stan didn’t fight it, but he didn’t seem happy about it either. “The hell?”

“You’re out of the lab,” Ford told him. “I’ve just decided. I can’t trust you down here, so that’s it. Upstairs, now.”

Stan started to say something but a shove from Ford silenced him.

“Go!” Ford ordered.

“I’m going,” Stan snapped back. “Just stop shouting.”

Ford dragged Stan to the bedroom, much as Stan had done with him the night before. He could hear the footsteps of their twins over their heads, likely getting ready for the day. “It serves you right,” said Ford once Stan had sat down on the edge of the bed. He could tell Stan was in pain. He hadn’t tested the memory eraser extensively, but Ford knew that the effects of a single usage were not unlike a hangover. When paired with a more traditional hangover - Well. It probably wasn’t terribly pleasant. “Why are you smiling?”

Stan shrugged. “This is… better.”

“Better?” Ford repeated, raising an eyebrow. “You look like shit.”

“I feel like shit.”

“Then I fail to see how this is better.”

“Before, I couldn’t tell how much was me missing you and how much was you poking around inside my brain.”

Ford’s anger subsided a bit. “And now?”

Stan didn’t even pause to consider his answer. “I miss being with you.”

A smile tugged at Ford’s mouth. “We can fix that,” he said. He reached down and brushed back sweat damp hair from Stan’s temple. Stan didn’t pull away and that was no small comfort. “The Mystery Shack is closed for the day. We’ll talk tonight.” Stan didn’t object, which caught Ford by surprise. “Get some rest,” he amended. If his drinking habits were still anything like when they were teens, he would be out until early afternoon.

* * *

 

Stan was up and about earlier than Ford would have expected. Emerging from his lab that afternoon, he found his brother returning from the grocery store, kids in tow - Dipper with milk and Mabel with a full bag of off brand sugary snacks.

There might as well have been an entire dimension between them. Ford watched his family talk and laugh. He watched Stan and Mabel settle down for a card game while Dipper sat down nearby with one of his books. It was nice. It was quiet. It made Ford intensely uncomfortable, especially when Stan glanced up, meeting Ford’s eyes for just a moment. He inclined his head, indicating Ford should join them.

Ford did no such thing. He retrieved a sandwich for lunch and retreated right back downstairs.

 

* * *

 

It was dark out the next time Ford found his way back up from the laboratory. The Shack was silent. The twins were, likely, asleep. There was a chance Stan was as well.

He wasn’t, though. Stan was seated on the edge of his bed, turning a dark bottle of unopened alcohol in his hand. He looked up when Ford pushed the door open. “We need to talk.”

“We do,” Ford agreed. He entered the rest of the way and closed the door behind him. He nodded to the alcohol. “What’s that for?”

“Said it before didn’t I?” Stan unscrewed the cap. “We need to talk, so…” He took a pull.

“Fair enough.” Ford joined him on the bed. He took the bottle and took a drink, himself. “You did a very careless thing, you know?”

“Me?” Stan snorted. “You’re going to lecture me right now? Really?”

“What else would we talk about?”

“You tell me.” Stan took the bottle back. “Apparently, my past is suddenly real interesting to you, so ask away. I’m an open book.”

“Were you careful?” Ford asked immediately. “Did you use protection? When you were having sex with other men. When you were a prostitute, I mean. When you-”

“I got what you meant,” Stan said, holding up a hand before Ford could elaborate further. “And sometimes. Usually. They didn’t always listen, and in prison…” Stan took another drink, a long one this time. “I didn’t catch anything. You’re in the clear, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“And what about the ones that didn’t-”

“Nope,” Stan cut him off. “My turn to ask a question.”

“No one said anything about-”

“Well, I’m not just going to sit here and let you interrogate me. My turn. It’s the least you can do after invading my brain.”

Ford supposed he had him there. “Go ahead then.”

“How’s your love life been?” Stan asked, with a smirking, expectant sort of expression that suggested he doubted Ford had seen much action.

Ford adjusted his glasses. “My time was better spent on intellectual pursuits, Stanley. I don’t-”

“How many people have you fucked, Poindexter?”

“ _People_? None, aside from you.”

“Why… Why’d you say people like that? What else is there to have sex with?”

“My turn,” Ford announced, ignoring the puzzled horror creeping into his brother’s expression. “Why didn’t you contact me?”

“Would you have cared?”

“I don’t know,” Ford admitted. “If I knew the extent of… But you probably wouldn’t have told me everything. How long did you sell drugs?”

“It’s my turn for a question.”

“No, you asked another one, and I answered it. I probably wouldn’t have cared. It’s my turn.”

Stan rolled his eyes and took another drink. “Off and on for… Well… You know the bathroom in the basement? I wouldn’t re-tile it.”

Ford frowned at his brother, eyes narrowed until… “Are there drugs in this house, Stanley?!”

“That’s two questions,” Stan said with a smile. “But, yes. The off season is slow. I don’t deal. I just let some old contacts hold product here for a cut.”

“How much of a cut?”

“That’s three questions,” Stan told him, then said nothing else on the matter. “If you could find me that whole time, why did you never-”

“I don’t know,” Ford interrupted. He knew what the question was going to be. He didn’t have to hear it. “I have an idea of why… It’s just complicated… And, it seems stupid now.”

Stan looked away. “Did you ever miss me?” He took another drink.

“That’s two questions,” said Ford. “But, yes… You don’t do any of those drugs we were talking about, do you?”

Stan gave a laugh at that. “It’s usually in my best interest to stay sharp,” he said, giving his head a tap. “In my younger days I did, though… Socially.”

“Socially?” Ford repeated, thinking back to a memory he had seen - of Stan snorting lines with a former boss.

“When it was in my best interest to,” Stan rephrased. “I guess.”

“You guess?”

“You can’t just keep repeating what I say and fishing for a longer explanation. I’m going to start counting those as questions.” Stan took another drink and passed the bottle to Ford when he reached for it. He stared straight ahead for a while, slumping a bit. “Forget it. I’m not in the mood for this. Just ask whatever you want, and let’s get it over with.”

Ford had had his own encounters with illegal substances, of course. For science. Drugs hidden in the basement would be a a mere blip on a laundry list of offenses were they to be subjected to some sort of government raid. Stan already wasn’t enjoying this. Ford was never one to not cut to the chase. Why was it so hard to just ask what he wanted to now?

“There was one memory I saw,” Ford began. He paused to take the bottle from Stan and take one last drink for himself. Already, they were getting low. Ford wasn’t a fan of getting drunk. There were more easier, more effective ways to achieve the same results. Whiskey was what was handy, though. There was something self destructively satisfying about the way it burned on the way down. “It was in a bathroom. There was a gun, and… I’m sure you remember the one I’m talking about.”

Stan took the bottle back. He took another drink and gave what might have been a nod.

“Did that…” Ford let the warm, alcohol-fueled looseness blooming in his stomach spread to his mind and extremities. “Did that sort of thing happen often?”

“I can take care of myself, Ford. Always could,” Stan said, the alcohol doing little to relax him, it seemed. Between them, they had finished the bottle. He stood and crossed the room, retrieving another from a cabinet. Ford didn’t fault him for it. Neither of them were drunk enough for this kind of talk.

“I’m not saying you can’t,” Ford said, carefully. “But if there was a gun involved or drugs or-”

“It happened more than once, yeah,” Stan blurted, breaking the seal on the new bottle’s cap. “The time you’re thinking of - that was the first time… someone didn’t pay.”

The phrasing made Ford cringe, but he wasn’t going to challenge Stan’s perception of events. Not now and not like this. “And you were homeless the entire time?”

Stan took another drink. He gave a shrug. “Never had a place of my own, if that’s what you mean. Usually, I slept in the car. If I was working, I might stash the car somewhere safer and find a place closer by that was dark and out of the way… Sometimes I crashed with the clientele. Sometimes, my boss set me up operating out of some hole in the wall, with other small time dealers. That was the worst. Most of em’ were junkies. If you didn’t keep an eye on them, well, there went the product.”

Ford tried to picture all of this but couldn’t. The concepts weren’t outside of his realm of experience. His mind was just still having trouble inserting his brother into them. “And you never did anything like that?”

“Become my own best customer?” Stan laughed, his words slurring together a bit. “No… Well, I mean, once I guess. I ran into trouble in other ways - mostly borrowing money from people who didn’t appreciate not getting paid back on time and with interest.” He gave a humorless laugh and took another drink. “That happened more than once, but you could probably guess as much.” Stan gave Ford a weary glance, like he knew he was ashamed of him, like Stan was ashamed of himself. “This one time, things got really bad, though. I was pretty sure that was it, so I…” Stan shook his head. “What’s the point of this?”

“It’s been forty years.” Ford reached for the bottle, letting their hands linger together for a moment longer than necessary as Stan passed it off. “I missed a lot.”

“No kidding.”

“We used to be inseparable,” Ford mused to no one in particular, looking at the bottle as he said it. He took another drink, and his throat rebelled against it. He coughed.

Stan slapped him on the back, rather unhelpfully - which was probably the point.

“I… Sometimes I miss the beach,” Ford muttered, when his chest had stopped burning. “And the boat and, hell, even high school.”

“The boat?”

“The Stan o’ War,” Ford specified before finding it odd that he had even needed to. “You remember that, don’t you?” He turned to his brother, who had moved away from him on the bed. “Stanley,” he said, firmly this time.

“Should I?”

“Damn it, Stanley!” Had Ford had the memory eraser on hand, he might have broken it against the wall right then and there. “I told you that was a dangerously abstract thing to erase, didn’t I?”

Stan glared at his brother and took yet another drink. “Did you? I don’t remember…”

Ford snatched the bottle away. “This is serious. Is there anything else you don’t remember?”

“That is… that’s a really stupid question.”

Damn it. He had a point. That was enough alcohol for tonight. Ford put the bottle on the floor and gave his brother a stern look. “Are there any obvious gaps in your memory?”

Stan shrugged, but his expression had grown thoughtful. Gradually, his eyes focused on Ford. “You,” he admitted. “I guess there might be some gaps in my memory that… don’t make much sense without you.”

“I can fix that,” Ford said alcohol dulling his common sense. He gathered his thoughts, realized there may well be other reasons why Ford wasn’t in memories he, by all accounts, should have been part of. All the same, the easiest fix he could think of was still the one that would likely upset Stan the most. “If you let me back into your mind, I can _make_ you remember.”


End file.
